


No Choir

by squishyflamingo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, I love music so much I apologise, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Singing, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, This is ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21993112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squishyflamingo/pseuds/squishyflamingo
Summary: The angel loved caroling in London. Sometimes even entertained the idea of caroling in pubs up north. In England some people went in for watching the lights being switched on along Oxford Street at the end of November by a famous what’s-their-face, the obnoxious bustle of Harodds (though it was prime grounds for mischief), dozens of Yorkshire puddings or mince pies, trifles, copious amounts of Wassail, ruddy-cheeked laughter, writing letters to old Saint Nick to toss into the fire, seeing how long it would take to get Whammed during Whammageddon, a gay old time at the panto on Boxing Day.All well and good, but caroling. That was the ticket.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	No Choir

**Author's Note:**

> *yeets Christmas fic onto Ao3 2 days after Christmas* THIS IS AN UTTERLY SELF-INDULGENT UN-BETA'D, UN-BRITPICKED FICLET I'M SO SORRY. If you get anything out of this please listen to the Nor'Easter's cover of 715 - CRΣΣKS on Spotify because *chef's kiss* - BELLISIMO.

A choir of angels. It was such a reverent, heavenly, and beautiful image. A holy thought. People used it to denote great things, happy things, great acts - pure, incandescent, good will to men, all that shit.

Crowley remembered in fits and bursts when his voice had joined with the collective of beauty, those 'celestial harmonies' he'd teased about haunting Aziraphale forever once they saw if Robert Frost got his wish - but it hadn't ended in fire or ice.

_Well, nearly in fire_ , Crowley thought hazily as he bolstered himself against the chilly December air, sodium street lights bouncing along his angel companion's curls as if they were pure snow refracting prisms back in stunning rainbows.

Aziraphale had wanted to go to the Royal Albert Hall for Christmas caroling (which Crowley had given up fussing about anything Christmas related around the Regency era, as they both knew it was a purely human invention that Aziraphale delighted in despite its many flaws - except industrialisation and capitalism - which Crowley was rather proud of). 

The angel _loved caroling in London_. Sometimes even entertained the idea of caroling in pubs up north. In England some people went in for watching the lights being switched on along Oxford Street at the end of November by a famous what’s-their-face, the obnoxious bustle of Harodds (though it was prime grounds for mischief), dozens of Yorkshire puddings or mince pies, trifles, copious amounts of Wassail, ruddy-cheeked laughter, writing letters to old Saint Nick to toss into the fire, seeing how long it would take to get Whammed during Whammageddon, a gay old time at the panto on Boxing Day. 

All well and good, but caroling. That was the ticket.

Crowley reckoned his best friend missed it. Being one amongst the assembly. Raising up and lending his voice, if not to praise God, but to just _sing._ The very _freedom_ of his own voice.

Usually, whenever they were in the bookshop sipping spirits or wine, recounting the innocence of “bad people”, and the secret deviancy of “God’s own chosen”, Aziraphale would have a record playing. Crowley would catch the Principality humming melodically during comfortable stretches of silence, swaying to and fro, or when he bustled into the kitchenette to make tea. 

Sometimes the demon recalled hearing the angel singing Dido’s Lament under his breath in the safety of an opera box, despite his languages being rusty. The Serpent of Eden could even cast his recollection as far back to overhearing the Guardian of the Eastern Gate recite an innocently blasphemous (but celebratory) dithyramb to himself while picking olives on the island of Kythira as Crowley, disguised in his serpentine body, bathed in the October sun. Aziraphale had used his miracles to influence a young Saint Elessa there, not knowing that her impending martyrdom by her vengeful father’s hand would be what later converted the island to Christianity. 

And, without a doubt, Crowley could never forget the Panama Club. He’d had some particular snake-oil salesman business in Chicago (Crowey had a soft spot for the place after admiring the horticulture and forestry exhibits in 1893 at the World’s Columbian Exposition whilst a serial killer ran rampant), but once he’d set one boot in the Second City that clear bell resonance he could feel when Aziraphale was nearby vibrated through his bones. So he’d followed the ethereal _ding, ding_ calling him home to a rather risque cabaret being performed at the Panama, but he bypassed the show, winding up a flight of dimly lit stairs to a small second floor, tucked away - a hidden gem. An altar to lay prostrate at in a den of iniquity. The angel was perched on one of the closest seats to a makeshift stage, gaze shimmering starlight as he listened to one Alberta Hunter ad-lib her way through somber, bewitching notes of blues long before the world caught on to her incredible talent.

“-and there’s a group of ladies that I just adore, they’re called The White Rosettes. I found them while browsing on that internet website - You-tube? Anathema showed me how to use it on the mobile that you purchased me. Although, the sound quality doesn’t do them justice, the White Rosettes. And I know what you’re going to say. I’m too old-fashioned because I wax poetic about the sound quality of a record on my gramophone--”

Aziraphale's unbridled excitement was in full swing, and the demon squeezed his friend slightly closer by their interlocking arms, an indulgent smile creeping onto his face.

Crowley did have an appreciation for different Christmas traditions over the centuries, picking apart particular practices that Christmas had become an amalgamation of. One of his absolute favourites was Krampus. Absolutely spooky and rife with the occult, had his own big day on December 5th in prelude to jolly Saint Nick’s day December 6th, put the fear of evil into children, but still aligned with bloody _Christ_ mas. Need he say more?

Full disclosure, he may or may not have participated in a Krampus Run once. Scaley, aberrant patches of fur Krampus had become popular amidst the participants.

Oh, Iceland had a rather interesting one, didn’t they? Crowley wondered if Aziraphale knew about Jolabokaflod. Because if he did surely he would never celebrate any other Christmas tradition other than the exchanging books with his loved ones on Christmas Eve and then spending the rest of the night reading with hot chocolate.

Wait, did Aziraphale invent Jolabokaflod? Had he ever been to Iceland?

“Darling, before I forget, I wanted to ask if you minded going to the Millennium Bridge afterward, there’s this delightful woman from Austria that’s there every winter; she sells these decadent cinnamon and sugar roasted nuts and I like to bless her…”

Crowley could hardly contain his shiver at both the gentle, easy epithet or the tingling sensation of love curling around his spine like a silk ribbon. Because that is what it was, it was a gift - something left over from their body swap after the almost end of the world.

He loved Aziraphale. This was not new. This was not an epiphany. He hadn’t suddenly woken recently in a cold sweat of realisation that he was smitten with his best friend, and not in the explosive divine wrath sort of smitten. But, as a rule, demons were not meant to feel love. Literally, and figuratively. 

His broken body followed rules just as well as his traitorous mind. He’d just been very adept at hiding it. And being able to experience angelic love, which was a love of all God's creatures…he felt it unfiltered, hot glass at first to his touch starved skin, then tender, warm honey as a balm. He'd not told Aziraphale - he didn't know what it meant himself, but now the latticework of his friend's affections laced through him constantly.

It kept him more grounded than any vice ever had in 6,000 years. It also hurt so much he wondered if it'd discorporate him. He wanted to unhinge his jaw and consume it until it was nothing else but his. It was fucking terrifying.

So he’d not told Aziraphale.

“Ah, also, I’d like give some of them to the homeless; perhaps find them somewhere warm. I promise it will only be a few blessings!”

Of course, the Principality can’t quite help himself, it’s the same each Christmas - a sort of pilgrimage across London to do what he is able to without arousing suspicions.

“A’course, angel. ‘Tis the season, you might as well undo all of my handiwork. ‘M not on the graft much these days,” Crowley un-linked their arms to turn around and walk backwards, a slash of a grin sharpening his features, which he poorly concealed in his bright red scarf.

Aziraphale’s blush was positively boyish, unguarded as he stared at his long-time companion, wide-eyed, “You tempestuous thing, what are you up to?”

_Showing you that you’re cared about._

“Since we didn’t really discuss gifts this year think of this as my present to you,” the demon posed with his hands underneath his pointy chin like a typical cherubic angel, the picture of innocence.

Aziraphale, grabbed Crowley's leather clad fingers in one mitten clad hand as if he’d disappear, sounding firm, "Yes, since we did not discuss gifts - I did get you something. I’m not giving you any hints. And you are not permitted to open it until we’re Anathema’s and Newt’s.”

Crowley whined like a stroppy child, but it was all for show. Presents had never been a tradition he took particular interest in, since he could use demonic miracles to get himself pretty much anything - but when it came to the Principality and his new-found friendship with the humans (the Them, Madame Tracy and Sargeant Shadwell included, he was willing to make an exception.

The first Christmas they’d ever celebrated on Their Side.

“On that train of thought, I do want to pick up some Gluhwein before we head to Tadfield on Christmas day. Anathema did say she was making a traditional Yule mead of some sort?”

“You absolute lush,” he couldn’t help but tease, which earned him an even more comely little flush and smack to his arm, “Oi, I never said it was a bad thing!”

“As I demon, even when _you_ say it’s not a _bad_ thing, that technically still infers it’s a wicked thing,” Aziraphale huffed, but he is smiling, just that sweet curve to his lip that really has no right to get Crowley so hot and bothered. 

He should have put somewhere in their original unwritten Arrangement agreement that the angel was not permitted to say the word ‘wicked’ in his presence, because that was like a feedback loop of him falling, and falling, and falling all over again.

They made it to Royal Albert Hall early to dine first, entering the foyer, which only a handful of people milled around in, most likely for tours or, seeing their fancy dress, a holiday party in a rented room. The Coda was on the third level, so they made their way and were greeted by a restaurant host that oddly reminded Crowley of Newton.

His name tag read, ‘Chris’. The young man’s demeanor was soft and genuine as he spoke with Aziraphale, who had made the reservation under his pseudonym. The angel did not treat the boy as if he needed to be coddled, but like an acquaintance in a way that mollified the uncertain lines in the kid's body, a bit of work-related exhaustion, that invisible border of where his customer service facade ended and introversion began.

Crowley watched as Aziraphale spread cheer by blessing Chris, hip cocked and subtly leaning into Aziraphale as if to leech a bit of his glow. His cold-blooded self wriggled in delight.

He didn’t expect the host to pick up on it, peering up through his lashes at them both with an open admiration that left Crowley a bit bereft. Sometimes he forgot how Aziraphale and his closeness could be perceived by an outsider.

Then the poor bastard turned positively green, freezing mid keystroke. "Bugger, er, pardon I just...the entire system's gone down and I don't mean to-- I just need to get the manager on shift--"

This brought back Crowley’s naughty streak, as now the resemblance was uncanny. "Your last name wouldn't happened to be Pulsifer, would it?"

Aziraphale pinched his side with an admonishing glare, then leaned over to hum sympathetically. "My dear boy, take your time, it's alright."

The Serpent of Eden resisted using his power to get their reservation system up and running again, instead touching the Principality’s shoulder. “Hey, ‘m gonna have a wander - just text me or bell me when we’re all set, yeah?” He winked at Chris, and a bit emboldened to selfishly feed the assumption the restaurant host must have about them, bussed Aziraphale’s soft cheek before sauntering back downstairs, almost taking them two at a time.

A few choice curse words were the soundtrack to his hasty retreat, the melody along the lines of the Pirates of the Caribbean theme - _fuck fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck shitting bollocks, you bellend_ \--

Once safely out of sight, and in a decidedly more empty foyer, he gripped his hair in frustration at himself. “This, this is why you can’t have nice things. Pack it IN, for Heaven’s sake!”

Fuck. He’d have to mention it at some point, what had happened the night they averted Armageddon, otherwise it really would fester in him - especially now with this new...old...oldnew ability. 

They were much more touchy-feely in general and open with one another. Even if a complete shift in dynamic might be too much for Aziraphale he deserved to know...that he was loved.

Crowley sighed, unwinding his scarf, and decided to take a peek at the set-up in the main auditorium.

Fingertips shoved into his trouser pockets, Crowley looped around the surprisingly empty arena, the _click clack_ of his heeled boots almost as loud as gunshots. Of course the acoustics would be second to none in this place. Huh, there was an idea. Should he though?

Unable to help himself, and with a self-indulgent grin, the demon made quick strides to the stage and easily hopped up. The elevation and change in perspective really knocked the proverbial wind out of him, lighting so intense he had to blink against the harsh glare only thousands of wattage could give off, despite wearing sunglasses.

He was older than this place by several millennia. Hell, he was older than Earth. 

Naturally, he had to make an absolute tit of himself up here - self-deprecation always made him feel better. The demon giggled and did a step-ball-change with his best Eric Idle impression, “Life's a piece of shit when you look at it! Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's truuue, you'll see it's all a show, keep 'em laughin' as you go. Just remember that the last laugh is on you. And always look on the briiight side of liiife~”

Then he started cackling so hard there were genuine tears in his eyes, doubled over with palms braced against his knees. “Fuck me Anthony, get it together.”

Once he was able to reassert some semblance of composure the last decibel of his echoing laughter faded into the dome’s crossbeams.

His ear-splitting smile faltered, as sobering solitude permeated the auditorium and he thought of Aziraphale. Was it like this, in his head?

An empty stage, all by his lonesome. Dreaded fear clawing up his throat, wanting so badly to let out one inconsequential warble of a note. As if it would betray him, give up the fact that he had strayed so far from his choir, having lost the harmony they once shared, while simultaneously deathly afraid of being a solo act.

Never permitting himself the luxury.

He wanted to tell him it was okay to sing alone. He didn't _need_ anyone. On his own he was…Aziraphale. He was himself, and that was enough. He didn't need Crowley to muddle up the breathtaking, intrinsic ballad in him, he wasn't unfinished sheet music.

But Crowley would always be there for him. If he ever fancied a duet.

It was funny. Crowley had metaphorically (and a bit physically) shattered upon impact from his million light-year plummet, and he saw the missing mirror shards of himself in Aziraphale. However, singing was another thing that he hadn’t lost like the other Fallen. Not that...if he belted out in Piccadilly Circle people would win EuroMillions, or flowers would bloom in the dead of winter, or dogs would start shitting diamonds.

Actually, that’d be hysterical to see.

It wasn’t angelic or any of the _holy, holy, holy_ stuff he used to spew around the throne of God. 

A sliver of hope here, a mended rift in a relationship there. Hell had never noticed.

He didn’t let loose often, just to be safe. His tastes had quite a range, but it was mostly modern music, tunes from 1960 onward. Just vibed better with it. There was his ever-beloved Queen, Bowie, a handful of the Beatles with their respective solo works, Mama Cass, Iron Butterfly, Sousioux and the Banshees, Sade, The Velvet Underground, Scorpion, a guilty dose of Joanna Newsome (she was a fucking legend and he’d fight anyone about it), Janelle Monae, Fionn Regan...oh yeah, he’d been listening to more of that Bon Iver bloke. He was decent...in a strange bluegrass occasionally meets synth pop way. Buh, hipsters.

But his lyric and prose, as syncopated as it often was, sometimes hit Crowley so unexpectedly in the solar plexus it left him reeling through time and space itself.

“Down along the creek...I remember something,” he started unsteadily at first, almost unable to hear himself. A quick look around reminded him that he’d used a bit of demonic influence to dissuade stagehands or managerial staff from wandering in. Well, in for a penny…

“Her, the heron hurried away...When first I breached that last Sunday,” he continued, distantly picturing himself back in the Garden of Eden, as the Almighty walked away from him and Michael wielded their sword at his breast, a weapon forged by his own questions to cut him down, “Low moon don the yellow road. I remember something.”

_Something_ reverberated through the auditorium, underneath his ribs, tangling around his very human heart. Therapeutic, cathartic.

“That leaving wasn't easing all that heaving in my vines, and as certain it is evening ‘at is now is not the time,” Crowley made slow circles over the stage floor, head tipped back and projecting at last, physically feeling a rush spreading through his limbs, imagining Aziraphale's face lighting up on the Eastern Wall, illuminating him, sheltering him, “Toiling with your blood - I remember something…”

They’d been so desperate while deciphering Agnus Nutter's last prophecy; how were they going to survive - how could they defy everything they had been created for, to save the world, only to go out with a whisper? 

Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut, hearing the ringing of Bible verses that tumbled from Aziraphale at his Mayfair flat as if the angel could match one with the prophecy, until he fretfully grabbed his infernal equal by the collar of his shirt (blazer long since discarded), uttered as a benediction, “ _This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me,_ ” and their mouths came together in a fusion that might have leveled several zones of London. 

“In B, un-rationed kissing on a night second to last, finding both your hands as second sun came past the glass! And _oh_ , I know it felt right and I had you in my grasp--” The tangle around his heart turned into an all-too familiar, painful and sour sensation in his esophagus, strangling.

“Oh then, how we gonna cry? 'Cause it once might not mean something?”

He’d replayed that kiss over and over, letting it simmer, a part of him acknowledging it was just a hail Mary at the 11th hour.

“Love, a second glance, it is not something that we'll need. Honey, understand that I have been left here in the reeds! But all I'm trying to do is get my feet out from the...crease,” he pivoted to look at the back of the stage, away from the glaring luminescence, down at his feet straddling a seam along the floor of the stage. Straddling a line. “And I see you…”

There had been so many times when he had waited for Aziraphale to look over his shoulder to find Crowley there, _I see you, please see me_ \- and the one time in 1967 when Aziraphale had been waiting for _him._

“Turn around, you're my A Team...Turn around, now you're my A Team...God _damn_ , turn around now--”

And when he did. When he turned around to face the arena again Aziraphale stood there, near enough that Crowley could see how his hands were white-knuckled clasping each other, visibly shaking, and tears glimmered in those empyreal eyes. Christ, he was glowing, effussed with the love that overflowed from the demon.

The Principality _must_ feel his friend’s love, unfettered, unleashed, raw.

Said demon was very thankful to Someone right then that he didn’t need oxygen to live, because his essential mortal functions had taken a mass exodus. He was just an occult being in a useless, fleshy man-shaped body in front of otherworldly man-shaped angel that he had accidentally poured out his foolhardy affection via some sort of Disney sing-a-long confession.

That was the ending of Notting Hill, right? Not that he’d ever watched it, of course not, it was unrealistic Hollywood rubbish and Hugh Grant was a right cunt.

Oh God. Oh Satan. Aziraphale was _crying._ That was, er, ummf, good? No, not..it meant something hopefully good for them both, if the angel didn’t rebuff him, that he had understood the off-beat, contemporary, deeply melancholic and romantic versus of a Midwestern American songwriter.

Well, since they both seemed to be at an impasse Crowley eventually found it in himself to resume normal mortal functions and knelt down with a proffered hand up onto the stage.

At first he was afraid that was the wrong move, that he hadn’t read the room right, and the angel would either slap his hand away, or just go full pelt running in the opposite direction. But Aziraphale clutched desperately for him, using their joined hands for leverage to push up on his tip-toes and press their mouths together, hard, fast with clacking teeth and saline.

It was by no means a graceful kiss - but more of a communion of mouths, a wellspring of emotions that had been covered for centuries finally being uncovered, drunk greedily from, satiating each other - then Crowley lifted Aziraphale the rest of the way onto the stage, cupping his lovely face, rubbing their noses together, savoring it - the _love_ he felt from the angel that had always been there, for _him_ , but he didn’t realise, didn’t allow himself believe. “Can’t really say, ‘Happy Christmas’,” Crowley whispered in juxtaposition to his booming volume a moment ago.

“Well,” Aziprahale’s breath tickled his swollen lips, humbled and happy, “It _is_ the first day of Chanakuh. No, never mind that...let’s just call today our intro.”

The Serpent’s soppy smile grew against the angel’s until there was only one blindly joyful expression between the two of them.

“Yeah. S’a start.”


End file.
